


Fear the Reaper

by karategal



Series: A Hobbit in the Lonely Mountain [12]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Child Death, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Established Relationship, F/M, Family, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hobbit Culture, Hurt/Comfort, Interspecies, M/M, Medical Conditions, Parent-Child Relationship, Thorin's A+ Parenting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-20 06:59:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3641019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karategal/pseuds/karategal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With a deadly illness inching its way through Dale and the surrounding human settlements, Thorin orders that all gates and entrances to the Lonely Mountain be sealed until further notice. Unfortunately, diseases care little for artificial boundaries or social status, and Erebor's thriving marketplace is the perfect mixing pot for a microbe of nightmarish proportions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Suspectible

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters or actors from _The Hobbit_. Everything belongs to the great and powerful J.R.R. Tolkien.

It was a cool autumn morning, exactly one week before Durin's Day, when Bilbo heard the first reports coming out of Dale.

A respiratory sickness had been weaving its way through the human markets and households for several weeks, something that Bard and his council had claimed was a bi-yearly occurrence in Laketown and would probably continue on in Dale as well. Bilbo didn't think much of it; hobbits and men were quite well known for being much more susceptible to diseases than dwarves and elves. A wide variety of sicknesses swept through the Shire and Bree every couple years, leaving grieved parents and a whole lot of burials in their wake.

But the letter that Bard had sent him by raven was quite worrying, Bilbo had to admit. It was a list of the dead, most specifically those who had died over the past two weeks from what seemed to be the same illness. Bard's handwriting was legible and crisp, so Bilbo didn't have much difficulty in reading the columns of victims' names, place of residence, and most disconcertingly, their ages.

Two children, ages 4 and 9, in the Amund household. Farm #18.

One child and a pregnant mother, ages 2 and 27, in the Josef household. Market District.

Six manual laborers and one merchant, ages 17 to 43, in the Market District.

Three children, ages 8 (twins) and 13, in the Karla household. Farm #7.

One healer, age 21, in the Market District.

Two adults and three children, ages 67, 33, and 12 to 16, in the Årud household. Farm #41.

Five adults and one child, ages 14 to 51, in the 16th Garrison.

Three sailors, one captain, and two merchants, ages 17 to 73, in Laketown. Varying places of origin.

One midwife, age 38, in Laketown. Stillborn delivery. Mother's survival precarious.

The list continued for at least two dozen more lines, chronicling the sudden deaths of numerous people in ten short days, coming from all walks of life and professions and districts of Dale. A small handful were from Laketown as well. Bilbo was most disturbed by the age range, though; more than two-thirds of the victims were under the age of fifteen years, something that stuck out like a broken trowel to the hobbit.

He needed to tell Thorin about this. Right now.

It took a little longer than he'd anticipated due to couriers waylaying him, but Bilbo eventually made it down to Erebor's stables by the twelfth bell, more than a little out of breath and frustrated with the mountain's ridiculous size. Honestly, why did the corridors have to be _so_ enormous? Thranduil's accusations of the dwarves and their need to compensate for their short stature held a grain of truth sometimes. Not that Thorin was lacking in size in _any_ way, of course, but their architecture made one wonder on occasion.

"That's it, laddie!" shouted a familiar booming voice. "Hold onto his sides a bit tighter! Aye, that's it!"

Dáin was standing inside of a small arena near the front of the stables, fingers snapping back and forth as one of his massive battle boars trotted in circles, obeying his master's orders without a moment of hesitation. Two small figures were seated atop Galtêl, expressions serious as they attempted to steer the russet boar from one side of the arena to another, hands and feet working together in order to compensate for their diminutive height and weight. Dáin followed their progress every step of the way, arms held out in case a sudden jolt or tumble was taken.

"I thought your father had guild and court matters to attend to?"

Helm snickered from his place atop the fence and said, "Frodo and Donel begged to see the boars, so Adad took it as the opportunity it was and decided to spend the whole morning giving the lads boar-riding lessons."

"And his council let him run away? Just like that?"

"Would you try to get between Adad and something he really wants to do?" Helm shook his head in amusement. "He loves to show off his boars and they know better than to interrupt such an important event. Plus, Adad's always more reasonable after he's spent time with Hama and her litters."

"How're they doing?"

"Well, Donel took a bit of a tumble earlier, but it was nothing more than a skinned palm," Helm quickly assured. "The lad got right back up and insisted on doing another walk around with Adad. They just started riding by themselves a few minutes ago. It's going well so far."

"Don't jinx it."

"I fell on my head a couple times. Amad says it explains a lot."

"And I'd agree with her."

"You're a cruel, cruel hobbit, Uncle Bilbo. My dwarven sensibilities have been tarnished now."

"Dwarven sensibilities my foot."

"They're about as hairy as we are," quipped Helm, "So I think it's a good analogy overall. I'd bet my beard on it."

Bilbo laughed at that and gave the young dwarf a pat on the shoulder; Thorin Stonehelm was an intelligent lad and could hold his own when it came to witty bantering and a war of words, something that Bilbo had been delighted to discover a few years ago. He had inherited the best aspects of Dáin and Gella, although Bilbo could've done without his atrocious eating and farting habits. But one couldn't be too picky when it came to dwarves, either.

"I wouldn't go quite that far, my boy." Bilbo flicked at Helm's rapidly growing beard, which was already longer than both princes' and stretched down to his collarbone. "Now, have you seen your namesake anywhere around here? I have to speak with him."

"He was over near the gates last I saw him," said Helm with a tilt of his head. "Didn't look too pleased, either. I think another shipment of goods from Gondor weren't up to standard. We've had the same problem since that new steward took over down there. Amad isn't much happy about it."

"Just something else to add to the growing list of things I'm not looking forward to," Bilbo sighed. The next couple days weren't going to be pleasant. "Make sure your father doesn't drop Donel or Frodo on their heads, alright?"

"I can't guarantee anything."

"And that attitude explains a whole lot about Gimli and my nephews."

Helm snickered at that comment and said, "Being dropped on your head is a dwarven rite of passage. Builds character."

"Of course."

With that said, Bilbo gave the young dwarf a pat on the shoulder and went looking for his overworked husband. He would have to handle this conversation with great care, especially since Thorin had been acting far too much like a worrywart in recent weeks. Three months prior, Frodo had accompanied Thorin and Balin to Dale for a routine trade inspection, wandering around underfoot like faunts were prone to doing. To make a long story short, the lad had gotten separated from his uncle's party in the afternoon crowds, scampered around in a frightened panic, and then took a strong blow to the nose from an unawares man. They would probably never know who had accidentally clobbered Frodo in the nose, but Thorin had been in an absolute uproar when he'd returned to the mountain later that night, cursing every race, deity, and elf he could think of.

"It was a nightmare come to pass," Thorin had said. "I heard a shriek of pain and looked to the far end of the street and there sits my child, face covered in blood and tears and surrounded on all sides by uncaring northmen."

Although the part about blood and tears was true, Balin had assured him that a pair of women had already been at Frodo's side when he and Thorin had finally fought their way through the crowds, cooing and comforting the faunt to the best of their abilities. Of course, this had done nothing to lessen Thorin's panic, who had nearly lost his sister-sons a few years prior and could scarcely endure the sight of his youngest pained and bloodied now.

"He was just given an awful fright," had been Balin's words. "The lad means the world to him, you must know."

Oh, Bilbo knew that. Very well, in fact. Stubborn and pig-headed Thorin may be, but his parental instincts were impossible to deny or overlook, especially in regards to his smallest nephew. It was almost like Thorin was attempting to make up for all the time he'd missed with Fíli and Kíli in their youth, wandering through the wilds and towns of men in search of work, desperate to feed and shelter his family in any way he could.

Frodo was, as Dís liked to tease, the King's darling babe.

If someone had told Bilbo several years ago that Thorin would be completely under the thumb of a two-foot-tall hobbit fauntling, he would have laughed in their face and insisted they see a healer to inspect their obviously damaged head. But now? It wasn't unusual to see Erebor's King playing games, cuddling, or just plain doting on his youngest nephew.

Bilbo smiled at the thought. He had arrived in their chambers a few nights ago, fully prepared to pass out on the nearest flat and fluffy surface, only to discover Thorin laying in the middle of the floor with multiple toy swords sticking out of his torso. Apparently, Frodo and Donel had been in the mood for dragon slaying, so the King of Erebor had kindly volunteered himself to play the part of Smaug. The melodramatic groaning, floppy tongue, and twitching fingers were great effects, too; Bilbo had nearly laughed his foot fuzz off when Thorin had rolled over and dramatically said, "I'm dying! Damn you hairy rodents!"

A few blobs of cranberry juice had even been involved; to create realistic blood stains, Thorin had claimed. Neither Bilbo nor the maid had been amused by that particular excuse.

But still, his husband could be so adorable and playful and silly when the mood struck him. Not that anyone outside their inner circle of friends and family would believe it, of course. Because if the rumors were true, then much of Erebor viewed their King as a grumpy curmudgeon who enjoyed beating cocky trainees into the ground on a daily basis. Still respected and loved by his people, but grumpy nonetheless.

It was an endearing quality, in Bilbo's expert opinion.

And speaking of said King, there he stood at the gates, four merchants all twittering for his attention while a frazzled looking Ori attempted to write down everything that was being dictated by Balin and another member of the Royal Council. From the look on Thorin's face, it wouldn't be too difficult to extract him, either. Bilbo knew that wrinkly brow when he saw it and getting Thorin away from Lord Hrudin was becoming more and more advisable with each passing second. His husband's temper had improved quite a bit since he had become King Under the Mountain, but this particular lord had a bad habit of accidentally insulting every person he encountered nine ways to Trewsday. How he'd survived so long in a revenge-happy culture was beyond Bilbo's scope of imagination.

"I'm terribly sorry to interrupt," said Bilbo with his best apologetic smile, "But could I possibly borrow my husband and Balin for a few moments? It's rather urgent."

Lord Hrudin blinked in that owlish manner of his and said, "Of course, Your Highness."

"Thank you very much." Bilbo took his husband's hand and steered him away from the group, easily moving under Thorin's arm and into his offered side. "It shouldn't take too long, I assure you."

Once they were a safe distance away, Thorin turned to him with a pained frown. "Kíli didn't light his pants on fire again, did he?"

"Not yet."

"Insult the skin-changers and get strung up from a doorway?"

"Not that I know of."

"Please tell me he didn't try to steal one of Nori's knives?" Thorin rubbed at his eyes in frustration. "He really can't spare any more of his hair and I'm tired of making excuses for him."

"Not even Kíli's that stupid. Well, _maybe_ not... Still, it's a good thing he's the spare."

"I tell myself that every night."

Balin placed a hand on his Consort's shoulder and said, "You said you had something to show us, laddie?"

"Oh, yes, it's right here."

"By Mahâl, it's not a list of things that Kíli's done to anger the kitchen staff, is it?"

If the hobbit hadn't known his husband so well, he would've missed the slight upwards tilt of Thorin's lips, a clear sign that he was in a teasing mood. Bilbo loved that particular mood, especially when it was aimed at him or the boys. He would've included Dís too, but she had a rather unfortunate habit of clobbering Thorin whenever he tried to poke fun at her. It was a beloved sibling pastime, according to the two of them.

Sometimes, Bilbo was glad he didn't have siblings. They were baffling creatures, no doubt about it.

"Believe it or not, Kíli has been behaving himself in recent weeks," said Bilbo. The lad deserved some defense for not causing diplomatic incidents. "Now, whether that streak will continue remains to be seen, but some praise is warranted at the moment." 

The dwarf wrinkled his nose and said, "He must be planning something then. Kíli and quiet do not go hand in hand. Just like his mother." 

"I'll be sure to tell her that."

Bilbo didn't resist when Thorin pulled him close, always eager for his husband's touch and affection. Despite the dwarf's serious nature, Thorin was often doting and tender to his hobbits in public, which had surprised many of his Council members and other longtime subjects. Only the sons of Fundin and Dís had reacted to this behavior with indifference, the latter stating that her brother was far more caring and demonstrative than people gave him credit for. And to be truthful, it shouldn't have shocked Bilbo or the rest of the Company, either. When he wasn't acting the part of leader and king, Thorin could often be found with Fíli and Kíli, or Balin and Dwalin, all of whom he was quite open and friendly with. 

"I'll admit, I never expected him to be quite so... agreeable when around those who are neither family nor friend."

"People underestimate Thorin at every turn," Dís had said shortly after her initial arrival. "But who do they think helped me with Fíli and Kíli? Who changed my boys' diapers when I was at market? Who fed and trained and clothed them when I was too exhausted to do anything besides household chores? My brother's heart is one of the kindest I've ever encountered, and I've met many people in my life."

Dís' words had answered a lot of Bilbo's questions, especially in the earliest days of their courtship. Thorin had taken to Frodo like a fish to water, and it was likely due to his past experiences with Fíli and Kíli, who had apparently been quite the pair of rowdy and hyperactive dwarflings. The princess liked to refer to her sons as an uncontrollable whirlwind while Frodo was a gentle breeze, full of happy smiles, quiet words, and insatiable curiosity. Sometimes the faunt was so like Primula—sweet, loving, and beautiful Primula—that it hurt for Bilbo to even look upon him. 

He was an incredibly easy child to love, as Thorin often pointed out.

But it was best not to dwell on such things, Bilbo had learned. Primula and Drogo Baggins were long gone and it was now Bilbo's job to protect and care for their beloved son. He liked to think that his cousins would be pleased with the results so far, even if Frodo's dwarven family was a little... questionable in terms of respectability at times. Prim probably would've found them to be quite hilarious, though. She had always enjoyed a good laugh and pint of ale, being a full-blooded Brandybuck and all.

After a group of merchants wandered away from their position, Thorin looked down and said, "What has you so worried then, umzam?"

"Here, read it for yourself."

Thorin snatched the letter out of his husband's hand, nose wrinkling at the thought of yet another treaty or contract that he'd have to read over and sign before the night was out. However, by the time he was done reading it, Bilbo knew that Thorin would be an anxious wreck and wishing that the paper was simply another trade inquiry from the Woodland Realm.

"Why am I only hearing about this now?" demanded Thorin when he had finished. "This cannot be allowed to spread. Balin, order an immediate block of all men from the mountain. And send a messenger to fetch Óin. I want to know everything we can about this disease by the dinner bell."

Balin nodded and said, "I'll request some more information from Lady Sigrid. She handles the healing houses of Dale now."

"The symptoms were too vague for me to recognize," said Bilbo. "I know that illnesses can afflict certain races in different ways, so I'd like to know if this disease has swept through the Shire before. That will at least give us some time to prepare for it. I hope."

"Hobbits suffer from the same illnesses as men," Thorin whispered to himself. It seemed that that thought was all it took to spur the King into action. "Where is Frodo? We must find him at once."

"Dáin has him and the other children quite literally corralled, Thorin. You don't need to, oh bother..."

It only took Thorin a few moments to march over to Dáin and shove the letter right under his cousin's nose. With little more than a sigh, Dáin took the letter and had already read through half of it when Bilbo finally caught up with them. Watching Dáin's eyebrow rise higher and higher with each passing line was an amusing sight, but Bilbo also knew that an explosion of various proportions tended to follow such eyebrow raises, too.

"Aye, this could become a problem," said Dáin once he'd finished reading the letter. He looked around the entrance hall for a few seconds before seeming to come to a conclusion with a nod of his bushy head. "Take the wee ones someplace safe. Ah, don't give me that look, cousin. Helm and myself will send guards to round up any men left in the mountain, and we'll be diplomatic about it, Bilbo, I assure you."

"I want that statement in print, Ori."

"Of course." The scribe whipped out a piece of parchment and held it in front of Dáin's face. "Sign here, and here."

"Swindling hobbits..."

While Bilbo and the remaining Durins discussed the first measures of separation that would be placed between all non-Ereborians and the rest of the mountain, Thorin had already rounded up the children, tightly holding Donel by the back of his shirt when he tried to take another look at the boars. Despite looking a bit put out, the boys didn't argue much after that, obediently following Thorin out of the entrance hall and back to the royal wing. Glóril could mind them until the situation was handled and their King wasn't in such an overprotective tizzy.

Not that Bilbo could blame him for being worried, though. It had been many years since a plague had swept across Eriador and the hobbit knew quite well from family stories that infants and children were usually the first and most numerous to die during widespread outbreaks. Dale's current pestilence may very well be nothing more than a bad season of flu or grip, but it was best to take precautions early, especially since they didn't yet know if the disease only infected men or could spread to other races. Unfortunately for hobbits, whatever infected men usually infected them as well.

Thorin had every right to be concerned for his husband and youngest nephew, not to mention the babes and youngsters of his people.

"Keep yourself and the wee lad deep within the mountain, aye?" said Dáin once they'd decided on how to handle the immediate removal of human merchants, envoys, and diplomats from all but Erebor's main entrance. "I'll handle everything else that Balin and his minions can't oversee. We dwarves rarely fall ill to the diseases of men, but it'd be wise not to take any chances with the pair of you."

"Let us hope it's not too late," whispered Balin, eyes flitting back and forth between the twenty or so human merchants who littered Erebor's frontal halls. "I may not be a healer like my cousin, but I've seen my fair share of illnesses cripple the constitutions of men."

"Hobbits are made of hardier stock," Dáin assured. "Come, Helm, let's sort this mess out as quick as possible. I was given promises of mushroom soup and apple spice cake for dinner this evening."

"Supper, not dinner."

Dáin laughed in that loud way of his, the one that was specially designed for when in public places. "Seven meals a day. Oh, you hobbits are a brilliant people, that you are. Quite unfortunate that you're such a fussy bunch, though."

"I should really withhold his dessert for that."

Once Dáin and Helm had marched off to handle the first stages of implementing temporary isolation, Bilbo was left with Balin and Ori, both of whom were discussing what other measures they would have to put in place and how often to communicate with Bard and Sigrid about it. After a few moments, Balin turned to their Consort and gave him a wane smile.

"Why don't you retire for the rest of the day, laddie?" advised the elderly dwarf. "Óin should be arriving soon, and we can handle everything from here."

Bilbo nodded. "Could you possibly send him to check on Frodo when he's finished?"

"Of course. Now run along and get some rest. We don't want you or the lad coming into contact with any more men than absolutely necessary."

With that said, Bilbo retreated from the hall and headed towards the royal wing, stomach twisting into knots the entire way. Durin's Day was almost upon them and yet they now had a mysterious illness in their midst, compromising the dwarves' largest celebration of the year. It was disconcerting, and Bilbo couldn't help but fret about every man, woman, and child that Frodo and himself had come into contact with over the last few days. Dozens, at least.

He needed to speak with Thorin right away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! As many of you know, I'm in the medical field and see some pretty horrible diseases on a regular basis, especially when I work abroad for vaccination programs. Several readers mentioned that they enjoyed my realistic portrayal of diseases and medical issues, so I decided to write a semi-long story that focuses on an epidemic in the Tolkien universe. And as the story progresses and the disease and its symptoms become clearer, if a reader can identify (or almost identify) the disease, then I'll write a scene of their request somewhere in this piece. 
> 
> Updates may be a little slower than usual due to my class and hospital work, but I hope everyone will enjoy it nonetheless.


	2. Exposed

Thorin was exactly where Bilbo expected him to be.

Quite ironically, when it came to times of great stress or tumult, Erebor's King could usually be found on the royal terraces, surrounded by the greenery and dirt that he and his people so often ridiculed as belonging to weed-eaters and shrub-humpers. On this day, Thorin was seated upon a stone bench just beside Bilbo's beloved fish pond, dark eyes watching as Frodo and Donel played in the water and fed Bingo some carrot slices. The large goldfish was quite the swindler when it came to snacks, tail swishing back and forth in excitement whenever someone came near his little pond. Bofur tended to be his most common target, but the fish even learned to work his way around Dwalin and Thorin in recent months.

"I see someone's spoiling Bingo again."

"The thing's growing quite fat," said Thorin. He handed Donel a few more carrots. "Eats everything we throw in there."

"Are the others at least getting fed?"

"Donel's been flicking Bingo to keep him in line. Hasn't really been working, but they seem to be getting their share." Thorin grabbed their nephew by the back of his shirt to prevent a tumble into the water. "Has everything been sufficiently handled?"

"Your cousin and Balin have taken charge at this point. I trust in their judgment."

Thorin was quiet after that, left hand reaching out to pull Bilbo into his side on the bench. Dwarfling and faunt were oblivious to the royal couple's worry, too distracted by an anthill and the business of its workers to realize that their health and safety may be in imminent danger. Both of them smiled when Donel rushed over with a leaf full to bursting with ants, thoroughly amazed by the little creatures' ability to lift such a great and sizable weight. The little redhead was completely at ease with them, slipping right into the Durin family and their inner circle like he belonged there.

And he truly did. Everywhere Frodo went, Donel wasn't far behind, sometimes with Dwina and Farina in tow. The little boys were thick as thieves and acted more like brothers than best friends, which Bilbo encouraged as much as possible. A smaller room just off of Frodo's bedchambers had been remodeled and furnished for Donel several years ago, although the pair tended to conk out together on the faunt's huge bed more often than not. The dwarfling had his own large chest of toys, favorite foods in Bilbo's cupboards, several changes of clothes, and anything else Thana thought her son would need for spending the night with them. Most days, four rowdy boys roamed the royal wing as often as three, Dís lamenting the lack of girls in their family lines.

"Our blood is cursed, I swear it is," had been her words just last week. "Why else would I be so outnumbered?"

"Bombur made biscuits!"

"Hey, wait for me! I want some, too!"

Frodo and Donel had raced past the princess at that point, tearing around the corner and towards the smell of fresh cinnamon biscuits. Pained exasperation had been the only term Bilbo could think of to properly describe Dís' face; both little boys had barely avoided stomping on her skirts, their eagerness for food and sweets almost dangerous to behold.

"We need more girls in this family. There's no other viable solution."

It was a fact that she never failed to point out, either.

Personally, Bilbo thought it was refreshing to not have ten or twenty fauntlings underfoot, but dwarves were a twitchy bunch on the subject of children. The whole concept of triplets or quadruplets seemed to baffle and horrify the poor dears, and Bilbo was certain that most of the Company believed lady hobbits to be these magical fertility beings that could put even the fruitiest of weed-eaters to shame. Of course, the Took and Brandybuck clans would take that as a compliment, and with a great amount of pride, too.

"I spoke to Óin," said the hobbit. He leaned further into Thorin's side. "Just briefly as he went down to meet with Balin. He says that he'll write to Bard and request a more thorough list of symptoms by the fourteenth bell. Toäc was already waiting for the message when I left to come up here."

"Dwarves rarely get sick enough to die," Thorin admitted. "Our constitutions are much hardier than those of men."

"And hobbits."

Thorin glared down at him for that, but Bilbo didn't see any reason to sugarcoat things. For Bard to send them a letter of that nature meant that something was wrong and the Bowman was very worried about it. Perhaps dwarves didn't often fall ill, but hobbits and men certainly did. Bilbo had watched several of his friends and cousins succumb to the menace of childhood diseases, his parents' faces white with terror every time a faunt was taken from the living world. Belladonna had always forbidden Bilbo from attending funerals; she worried the disease could jump from the dead to the living, which Óin had assured him was partially true.

"We'll keep him close and deep within the mountain," assured Bilbo, since he knew that's what Thorin wanted to hear right now. "Just for a few weeks. Until everything blows over in Dale and the other settlements. With Donel to keep him company, it shouldn't be too difficult."

"How long before Thana returns?"

"At least two more weeks," said Bilbo. "Perhaps three, if the weather doesn't cooperate."

"Knowing our luck, it won't."

With Thana away to Dorwinion for a diplomatic council and Farór on a long-term excavation crew into Erebor's deepest mines, Donel was in their care for the next few weeks while the lad's uncle cared for his younger twin sisters. Thorin had grumbled about it at first, but Bilbo could tell that the Dwarf-King enjoyed having two playful and energetic children underfoot, that warm, beautiful smile of his coming more and more often in recent days. He had even been taking time out of his busy evening schedule to bathe and read bedtime stories to them, voice rumbling through the ancient tales of Durin the Deathless and the Axes of Nargubraz. The latter story was one that Bilbo himself had never heard before; it was about an order of Blacklock warriors sworn to redeeming the dishonor of their ancestors, who had granted the Dark Lord Sauron shelter and warred with their Stonefoot Brothers in the Second Age.

Frodo had wrinkled his nose at that and asked, "Why would they do that? The Dark Lord's a lying sack of caragu rukhs."

"Mind your tongue, my boy. I know what that means now."

"But he is!"

"Quiet, Frodo," said Donel with a flick. "It's coming to the good part."

"You know this one?"

The dwarfling nodded and said, "I heard it on the southern roads through Near Harad. It's a favorite of the Blacklock merchants and caravans."

Bilbo snickered at the disappointed look on Thorin's face. Apparently, his husband wanted to be the first to tell the boys such a grand and sweeping tale, but he really should have anticipated Donel's surprisingly extensive knowledge of the other six dwarven clans. The lad had traveled more in twenty short years than Bilbo had in a lifetime.

"I suppose you know about Baruzimabûl then, too."

"A little bit."

"Well, perhaps the tale of Fulla Longaxe and his confrontation with the Sand Drakes of the Dune Sea will satisfy your refined curiosity," said Thorin, dark eyes sparkling when the dwarfling and faunt leaned forward in anticipation. "Ah, I thought so. Now, where to begin..."

"So dramatic," said Bilbo with a fond shake of his head. "And he accuses me of embellishing my stories about the trolls. Bah!"

It was half past the twentieth bell and the royal family had retreated to Frodo's bedroom for the remainder of the evening, Thorin weaving majestic tales for the boys and their ever-growing horde of deerhounds. Fíli and Kíli were working downstairs in the royal forges while Dís had opted to join her cousin in drafting a temporary yet effective isolation program for the next few weeks, so Bilbo and Thorin were alone with dwarfling and faunt until the bedtime hour passed. It was quite enjoyable and relaxing, if Bilbo were being truthful.

"Unfortunately, Fulla and his band didn't realize what they had stumbled into," Thorin continued. He was seated at the end of Frodo's bed, the boys watching him with wide and anxious eyes. "You see, sand drakes aren't like others of their kin, for they're more similar to true were-worms in that they can alter their shape at will. It has long been said that sand drakes can nestle atop or beside a natural feature or some dead prey and take on the characteristics of the object they touch. What creature does this remind you of?"

Both children were contemplative until Frodo let out a triumphant, "Chameleons!"

"Aye, and that makes them right sneaky bastards," said the Dwarf-King. "Insatiably hungry, the rumors have always said. They're the most vicious of all reptilian and desert monsters when on the hunt. Many Haradrim tell stories of how a sand drake will viciously pursue its prey until either the foe or the dragon is a poof of cloud or incapable of further movement. They attack from the air, using their enormous jaws and talons to spear their prey, soft and hard alike. Their famed speed and agility's said to be so vast that even one sand drake is enough to cause great damage to a poorly guarded caravan."

"We dwarves always guard our caravans well."

"That we do," said Thorin, "But Fulla and his band were exhausted after so many weeks of pursuit. It made them complacent and inattentive to the beasts that roost deep in the sandy wilds of the Dune Sea, and forget that a few also live on the driest plains between Ered Harmal and the mountains of the East. So you can imagine their surprise one early morning, just after the break of dawn, when they stumbled upon an outcrop of ancient ruins, surrounded on all sides by loose sand and what appeared to be patches of deadened thistle..."

It took another half hour for the boys to finally fall asleep, Thorin tucking them both beneath the blankets while Bilbo banked the fire and checked the locks. Once all was deemed right, the royal couple disappeared into their rooms with a click of the adjoining door.

"That took longer than usual."

"You're nervous and they can sense it," said Bilbo as he walked over to the wardrobe. "Fíli and Kíli have started to influence them. Dreadful turn of events, if you ask me. The last thing we need are another set of pranksters on our hands." Bilbo paused when hands settled on his hips, the caress of a familiar beard trailing down the hobbit's exposed neck. "Thorin?"

Fingers started to trail down his front, working through the brass buttons that adorned Bilbo's waistcoat. At the same time, lips nibbled at the sensitive spot behind his left ear, slowly kissing their way up to the even more sensitive tip. Bilbo couldn't hold back the moan that had escaped his throat, leaning back into Thorin's bulk as the King made a valiant attempt at devouring his entire ear.

"Thorin? Love?"

When this didn't seem to catch the dwarf's attention, Bilbo turned and took Thorin's face in his hands, leaning up to place a gentle kiss on lips that were far too tense with desperation. Using his husband's beard as a point of leverage, Bilbo slowed the kiss down to a quiet smolder, fingers threading through the soft hairs at the nape of Thorin's neck. He could practically smell the fear wafting off of his husband, Thorin's grip just this side of painful on Bilbo's admittedly soft and pudgy hips, which was a clear sign of the dwarf's distress.

"Deep breaths," said Bilbo after they finally pulled apart. "I'm right here. Not going anywhere, I promise."

He didn't protest when Thorin pulled him even closer, one hand on the small of Bilbo's back while the other buried itself in his hair. Tiny tremors passed through Thorin's body, something that rarely happened anymore. Bilbo, Óin, and Dís were the only people who knew about this particular issue—well, maybe Dwalin did too, since the dwarf tended to tell his best friend everything under the sun—and the healer chalked it up to leftover mental and emotional trauma from Thorin's battle against Azog and Bolg.

"Frodo and Donel are just through that doorway," Bilbo continued in a gentle yet firm tone, "Tucked away safe and sound in an extra-cozy quilt of Ori's making. They're not going anywhere. And the boys are down in the forge, building something I'd rather not think about for Durin's Day. It'll probably drive us and their mother half-mad with frustration, I'm sure."

The emotions of dwarves run very deep, had been Óin's simple explanation, and Thorin had lost a great many loved ones in his lifetime. Nearly losing Fíli and Kíli was a blow that Thorin would likely never fully recover from, not to mention the terrible ways in which he'd treated Bilbo during and after the Arkenstone debacle. It would be a long time before Thorin could let Frodo out of his sight without some degree of concern. Most people expected Bilbo to be the more emotional and protective parent, but it was actually Thorin more often not who fretted and chased after their youngest nephew, always worried that the tiny faunt would be trampled or treated in an unpleasant way by his xenophobic brethren.

Sometimes, Bilbo worried that Thorin was coddling the lad too much. Dís and the others didn't seem bothered by it, but this was probably due to them being almost as bad as their King. Gruff and grumpy Dwalin was the worst of the whole lot—besides Thorin, of course—puttering and hovering over Frodo like some kind of giant and overly weaponized mother hen. It was both endearing and ridiculous at the same time; even Dís agreed with him on that.

"No one's going anywhere," Bilbo whispered. "We're all right here. Even your crazy cousin and his over-sized boars."

Whoever wrote those silly stories about dwarves having hearts of stone had obviously never met a dwarven parent before. Thorin was a ridiculous worrywart at the best of times when it came to Frodo, and quite frankly, Bilbo was amazed that Fíli and Kíli hadn't driven their uncle into an early grave yet.

Of course, graves were something Bilbo shouldn't have even thought about given the current situation in Dale.

"Perhaps we should sit down," said the hobbit. He pointedly ignored the numerous kisses that Thorin kept laying upon his wrinkled and worried brow. "It's been a long and stressful day; some warmth and softness will be good for you."

"You don't need to coddle me like a frightened dwarfling."

Bilbo just continued to push him towards the fireplace. "Coddling would be impossible if you didn't wish it, Thorin Oakenshield. You're far too stubborn to allow anyone to do something that you truly don't want."

"Says the gentlehobbit who practically rules a dwarven kingdom." Thorin didn't put up any protest when Bilbo situated him on a small pile of furs in front of the merrily crackling fireplace, said gentlehobbit curling into his husband's lap like an enormous house cat. "And I know what you're doing, âzyungel. Even thick-headed kings can recognize subterfuge when they see it."

"Is it working?"

Silence stretched for several moments until the dwarf said, "That remains to be seen."

"We'll have to change that then."

In a familiar gesture of comfort, Bilbo carded his fingers through his husband's hair and then pulled him down for a kiss, massaging Thorin's sensitive scalp with the tips of his nails in that way he loved so much. The dwarf groaned in appreciation, prompting Bilbo to grin with a smug pride that would've scandalized the always prim and proper Bungo Baggins. His Took mother would've just laughed with delight and given her only son a cheeky wink of approval. And despite what Nori and certain other dwarves liked to believe, Bilbo wasn't the only vocal one in this relationship, although the hobbit was willing to admit that he tended to be the louder and more rowdy and demanding partner.

"You're not very discrete, darling."

Thorin snickered and said, "I'm not the one who demands bum kisses on a nightly basis."

"I'm a hobbit, we're creatures of pleasure."

"Bossy, too."

Said hobbit didn't even try to deny it. Bilbo was the receiving partner more often than not, but he was certainly not a submissive or complacent partner, either. The King Under the Mountain had long since become accustomed to being bossed around in his own bedchambers, knowing quite well that if Bilbo wasn't satisfied with what his dwarf was doing, then he'd take matters into his own hands. Or whatever the... situation called for, that is.

"You locked the door, right?" Thorin nodded and went right back to assaulting Bilbo's neck and collarbone. "Front and side? You know how creative they can be when they really want to get in here."

"All of them are locked. And the bells are good and functioning next to the adjoining door."

Bilbo leaned forward to steal another kiss and said, "I knew there was a reason I married you. Such an intelligent and resourceful dwarf."

"So says a pudgy, insatiable hobbit."

That earned the dwarf a nip on the nose before Bilbo whispered, "There's some biscuits and chocolate on the bedside table. What do you think?"

"I love you and your food fetish. To the bed!"

They had just started tossing their clothes in haphazard directions when a soft tap on the terrace doors stole Bilbo's attention from his husband's insistent kisses, the beak of a familiar raven pecking repeatedly at the glass right next to their brass door handles. Thorin's groan of frustration was so loud that Bilbo feared it would wake the entire royal wing. His sister-in-law had warned him just last week that if she saw or heard their rutting bums one more time this month, she was going to take drastic measures.

And Bilbo _really_ didn't want to know what those measures would be. He loved Dís dearly, but she could be downright terrifying sometimes.

"It must be from Bard or Sigrid," Bilbo surmised. He gave Thorin a parting kiss and raced for the terrace doors, not caring that his pants were undone and his shirt all turned about. Toäc had seen them in worse states of undress and positioning over the last couple years. "Good evening, Toäc. Please tell me you bring good tidings."

"No good tidings, I fear." The raven held his leg out to show the tied parchment. "Only unfortunate news. Fearful times, fearful times."

"I worried that may be the case," said Bilbo, a sudden warmth standing at his back. "Could you be a dear and fetch Toäc a snack, Thorin? I believe there are some leftover venison cubes in the icebox and some chips next to the spice cabinet."

With his fretful husband momentarily occupied in the kitchen, Bilbo unwrapped the letter and started to read through it, eyes widening and stomach churning with each new sentence that passed before his eyes. By the time Thorin returned with two bowls of raven food, Bilbo had had to sit down on a nearby settee, hand covering his mouth in an effort to stop the shaking that had overtaken it.

"What has happened, sanmizim?"

Bilbo showed him the short list that Sigrid had written, shakily saying, "At least ten more people died today. Six in Dale and four in the surrounding settlements. Most of them had similar symptoms, but Bard's healers don't recognize it."

"How many children?"

"Seven of them were under the age of twenty," said Bilbo. "Infants often die young, but many of these were tweens. They're the healthiest age group among Big Folk, I believe. Even the Shire would be worried about an outbreak such as this, especially if it was in Bree or Archet."

"And those sick?"

"Sigrid doesn't seem to be quite sure, but she says that their healing houses are almost filled to capacity." Bilbo accepted the arm and lap that Thorin offered, cuddling deep into his husband's furnace-like warmth. "Sore throat, high fever, swollen glands, croupy coughing, respiratory distress, all of it points to several different types of diseases that plague men and hobbits alike."

"And it's killing the little ones."

"The healers still don't know what they're fighting, I think." The hobbit looked towards his desk, already planning what he would say to Bard in his return letter. "I'm going to ask Sigrid for more details on the symptoms. Óin left for Dale this afternoon, to observe the patients himself, so we should expect some more information in the morning, I hope."

"Dwarves rarely sicken. I always ignored the illnesses of men because of it."

Bilbo sniffed and said, "At least our people will be safe."

"And you?" Thorin asked, arms tightening around Bilbo until they were like a vice. "Surely hobbits must be hardier than men. You've said that the Tooks are believed to have fairy blood in them, correct?"

"That's just an old legend, Thorin. Nobody knows if it's true or not."

"We'll close the gates then." The King's voice had become tight and fearful at this point, something that even Bilbo only heard on rare occasions. "Our granaries are full, thanks to yours' and Bombur's foresight. A few weeks should be enough time for this to blow over. You and Frodo and the other children will stay deep within the mountain, where it's safe and visiting men haven't ventured. That should be enough. It has to be enough."

Bilbo kissed his husband's cheek and said, "I don't know, Thorin. I don't know."

They sat in silence after that, neither willing to leave the comfort of their husband's arms. Even when writing a return letter, Thorin stayed right at Bilbo's side, actively protecting the hobbit from an unseen threat. It was all he could do, after all. Swords and axes and warhammers wouldn't work against this particular enemy, and it made the dwarf's stomach churn with worry.

He was King Under the Mountain, Lord of Durin's Folk, a direct descendent of Durin the Deathless himself, and yet he couldn't defend his own husband and young child against a fever that was sweeping through the lands of men? After everything Thorin had been through in his long, wretched life, how could the Valar continue to be so cruel? Did they have no compassion for their own creations?

Perhaps the Line of Durin truly was cursed...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Symptoms will start showing up soon, but don't expect them to be straightforward, especially since so many diseases look _very_ similar unless a specific symptom shows up. Everyone's had some really good guesses so far, though. And I imagine, due to the time period that Tolkien based his world on, that humans and hobbits and perhaps even dwarves or elves would be like those on Earth prior to the 1950s, and be utterly terrified of certain diseases. Most especially those they've never seen before, like this one is turning out to be. 
> 
> P.S. - I totally can't resist delving deep into Tolkien's canon. And making Thorin a total worrywart for his loved ones. He's a big and grumpy softie, seriously. Caragu rukhs = orc shit.


	3. Incubation

"The gates are closed."

Bilbo was standing just behind the throne when two guardsmen came to inform Thorin of this momentous feat, their tones solemn and backs ramrod straight as a loud boom could be heard in the distance. Silence had descended over much of the kingdom, dwarves going about their last-minute business before rushing home, wary of the illness that had spread through Dale like wildfire. Dwarves were a hardy and enduring people who rarely took ill, but even they were cautious of a strange disease that could fell so many people in so little time. That most of the dead were children only intensified the unease settling like a pale over Erebor's slopes, stifling all sense of security that had been established since their home's reclamation and Smaug's demise.

"I'm going to fetch the boys," said Bilbo. He felt like a poor parent for letting Frodo out of his sight, even if it was only to the library to gather reading material. "They've surely found a good assortment of books by now. Ori promised that he'd organize a pile that would keep them occupied for weeks."

Thorin nodded and said, "I have a Council meeting first, and then I'll be along. The guilds have agreed to behave themselves for the foreseeable future, and my sister has drafted a work routine that should keep everyone mildly appeased until the gates open again."

"Just be careful, alright?"

"To be honest, I doubt this illness will affect the adults of our people," Thorin admitted. "But you can never be too careful with the children. These precautions will be worth it if even one dwarfling or faunt is saved from an early entrance to Mahâl's Halls."

"Then I'll see you at supper?"

"Of course," Thorin leaned forward for a quick kiss, "How could I ever resist venison stew and baked potatoes?"

"They are quite tasty, if I don't say so myself."

With that said, Bilbo took his exit from the throne room and headed for Erebor's library, intent on retrieving the boys and returning to the royal chambers as quickly as possible. The hobbit personally found this situation to be much scarier than an army of orcs and goblins. At least with those, you could see them coming and plan some type of attack or escape route. With disease, there was usually no hiding until it was too late, and waiting to see if you or a family member would fall ill in the coming days was nothing short of excruciating.

Bilbo had always found the concept to be frightening, even though he hadn't lost a close family member or friend in the last plague to sweep through the Shire. Most of the dead had been near the Old Forest and Breeland, but quite a few of his distant relations in Willowbottom, Buckland, and Samford had lost children, causing Bungo and Belladonna to lock their only son in Bag End for several weeks. After everything was over, Bilbo learned that his mother's cousins had succumbed to the disease, at least eight children among them.

He hadn't truly understood such cruel concepts at the time, but Bilbo had a young, vulnerable faunt of his own now and that made this whole predicament downright terrifying.

"Ah, there you are," said Ori when he arrived in the library. "We just finished picking out the books a half hour ago."

"You've quite the selection."

Goodness, that was a lot of books. Bilbo was certain that one of the stacks was taller than Donel, who'd entered his first growth spurt just last month. The boys would be occupied for the next two months before they even worked through half of them.

"I see they've cleared off quite a few shelves."

Frodo appeared from underneath a nearby table and said, "It's not that much. And we weren't allowed to take any from the Deep Archives, either."

"Those books are far too fragile and you know it."

"Ori just wants to keep them all to himself," said Donel. He placed yet another giant book onto the ever-growing stack. "We even found a few in Elvish that talk about the Farthest East and Shelf-lands. I wanna go there someday."

"That's an awful long way, my boy."

"I think it'd be worth it. The dwarves of Rûrîk live there. I've heard that they can control the wind."

"An ancient legend," said Ori while loading books onto a small cart. "We've had no contact with the Wind Mountains for centuries, and the tales of Demon-King Muar and the Quest for the Hammer have even more twists than those of Fulla Longaxe. Most of our accounts come from the Avari, anyways. Their Quenya writings can be... a little difficult to translate."

"I still wanna go there."

"Well, good luck convincing your mother of that," said Bilbo. "Now come along, I need to start supper within the next hour or your cousins will whine of being unloved and starved to death."

The mention of food caught their attention, both boys scurrying along behind Bilbo and the page who'd been sent to collect their cargo. Per usual, Bilbo paid Lenn for his troubles with biscuits, careful to keep contact to a minimum. Lenn didn't appear to be offended in the slightest and informed Bilbo that he'd be the only page to serve them in the coming weeks.

"I won't be leaving the royal apartments unless absolutely necessary," explained the young dwarf while nibbling on a biscuit. "Lord Balin thinks it is best that I keep contact only with His Majesty's family and trusted Company."

"Don't you have family to concern yourself with?"

Lenn shook his head and said, "My mother and cousin are still in Ered Luin. I find myself relieved of that fact right now."

"Yes, that's certainly a good way of looking at it."

A few minutes later, Bilbo was bustling around the kitchen while Lenn rested in front of the fireplace and the boys played a game of conkers under his watchful eye. It wasn't customary in dwarven culture to treat staff in such a familial way, but Bilbo liked to interact with the servants and found their presence a welcome distraction at times. Dori only chose the most loyal and studious of Durin's Folk to serve Thorin's family, so it hadn't taken long for Bilbo to grow fond of his maids and young page, all of them earnest and helpful as can be.

And yes, he kinda spoiled them. Bilbo didn't like being waited on hand and foot, and insisted on doing much of the housework around their apartments. He also gave chores to Frodo and his cousins, something that Dís wholeheartedly agreed with. It wasn't much, just some help around the garden and cleaning up after themselves, but royals past had apparently been exempt from such trivial domestic responsibilities.

"Good evening, âzyungel."

Bilbo nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt strong arms wrap around his waist, Thorin's fuzzy lips trailing kisses up and down his sensitive neck. Suppressing a moan of delight, Bilbo held up a cube of venison and laughed when Thorin didn't try to hide his own groan of appreciation. Cooking for others was much more enjoyable than cooking for just himself.

"Ewww! In the kitchen, too?"

"I'm a hobbit, would you expect any less from me?" Bilbo said to Kíli. "And stop pouting. Here, you can have a piece, c'mon."

Kíli scuttled over and said, "You're my favorite uncle, just to let you know."

They spent the remainder of the evening in Bilbo's gardens and sitting rooms, Thorin assisting his husband in retrieving the last fruits from his apple and pear trees. Kíli volunteered to climb up for the last ones, nearly losing his balance twice despite Bilbo's protests, stubbornly insisting that he could reach the highest hanging pears. It nearly gave Bilbo a heart attack.

"You're going to fall and break your neck!"

"No, I'm not," called Kíli from a particularly high branch. "I did this all the time in Ered Luin. And archers are always climbing trees to catch sight of their targets."

Fíli snickered and said, "He did fall on his arse a fair few times, though." 

"Shut up."

It was half past the twentieth bell when Óin entered through the main doors, an old tome under his right arm while the other held a small stack of papers. The princes had taken Frodo and Donel for their baths, so Bilbo didn't even attempt to the hide the uneasy twitch of his fingers or arms when Óin refused to come any further into the room.

"What has happened?"

Óin rubbed at his brow and said, "We have our first case in the infirmary right now. Dwarven. A young mason who's been working on Dale's walls and bridges for the past two years. Hasn't even come of age yet. He was around one of the victims on a daily basis, but it looks like we caught it early. He sought treatment as soon as his throat started hurting and fever set in."

"Do you know what it is yet?"

"I believe so, although I've never seen or even heard of this particular type before," Óin admitted. "It's called white or grey throat in the towns of men because of the odd membrane that covers the tonsils and throat. From what I've read, it usually kills about one in eight people, much higher in children and the elderly. But this black stuff that's been seen in Dale? I can't find anything about it."

Both royals nodded and Thorin said, "I believe I've heard talk of it before, shortly after we settled in Ered Luin. One of the nearby towns had lost several children in the spring before we arrived, and I recall a mother saying that she'd lost her daughter to a grey throat. That must've been it."

"Men are terrified of it," said Óin with a grimace. "And for good reason. Bard's healers have already sent ravens to the Elvenking, asking for any knowledge he may be able to give. I just sent one to Lord Elrond myself, but I doubt we'll receive a reply in time to do any good. Black throat, as they're calling it in Dale, sets in quickly and burns through the system like Balrog's fire."

Óin rubbed at his eyes after this, paging through the tome for what must have been the umpteenth time. Bilbo hadn't seen the healer this flustered since those first weeks after the Battle of the Five Armies, when the injured severely outnumbered the healthy and dwarves, humans, and elves alike were dying all around them. It was downright unsettling.

"It appears to be much deadlier than the usual type. I don't think there's much I can do for them."

"We'll just have to wait for word from the elves then," said Bilbo, pinching Thorin's arm when the dwarf grunted in frustration. "But if you think a treatment has even the slightest chance of helping, use it. We trust you, Óin."

The healer nodded and said, "I'll do what I can. For now, I suggest everyone stay confined to their homes unless absolutely necessary. Those who fall sick with black throat will be transported to the infirmary for care and treatment."

"Remember to take care of yourself, too."

Óin snorted at that. "And now I'm being bossed around by someone one-fourth my age. What's the world coming to?"

With that said, the healer disappeared back out the door, leaving both royals to ponder what he'd just told them. Bilbo had kept a tight grip on Thorin's hand through the whole conversation, brows pinched and skin clammy as Óin described just how dangerous this disease was. Now Bilbo knew how his mother and father had felt all those years ago.

"I need to bake something."

Bilbo didn't wait for Thorin to follow him, heading into the kitchen and straight for his bags of flour. Hobbits tended to eat when they were worried or stressed, so he felt no shame in wanting something sweet. That, and the boys had eaten the last of his apple scones sometime this morning. He had expected Thorin to follow him, but instead heard the dwarf speaking to their nephews in quiet tones, obviously briefing Fíli and Kíli on what Óin had just told them.

"A single year can't pass by without a crisis," Bilbo mumbled to himself. "Has this kingdom not suffered enough?"

"It seems we have not."

Arms wrapped around the hobbit's waist, Thorin's thick beard rubbing up and down a pale jawline. Desperately needing the physical reassurance, Bilbo turned his head to accept a warm kiss, momentarily distracted from the pear muffins he'd just popped into the oven. He heard a groan of disgust from the doorway and tried not to laugh; Kíli had a bad habit of walking in at the most inopportune times.

"I'll be waiting for my muffins in the living room," said the prince. "Where decent folks don't traumatize the eyes of their young ones!"

"You're of age now," snapped Thorin, "So button up and kindly leave."

"Thorin..."

"What? He's more than old enough to know when to make himself scarce." The King buried his nose in Bilbo's hair, breathing in deep when the hobbit reached up to massage his scalp. "The boy's been a menace since he was a small child, anyways."

"Should I fear for Frodo, too?"

"That lad's an angel. Why would I wish to traumatize him?"

Bilbo just shook his head in amusement, leaning down to check on his muffins and make sure they didn't burn again. Dwarves could be a distracting bunch at times, which was quite terrible where cooking and baking were concerned.

"I would prefer if you rested for the night, âzyungel. This has been a long and trying day."

"You know that cooking and gardening are my preference of relaxation," said Bilbo. The muffins were almost done. "Not all of us need to bash our best friend's head in to relieve stress, I'll have you know."

Thorin shrugged. "He needs a firm punch in the head from time to time. It's good for a dwarf."

"Of course, how could I forget."

After sharing a nighttime snack with the princes, Thorin and Bilbo retired to their bedchambers, far more exhausted than a day with so little physical strain should have warranted. By that time, the clouds had turned dark and ominous, reflecting the overall mood of Erebor's population. Bilbo didn't hesitate to undress and join Thorin in the bath, a painful knot having settled deep in the hobbit's stomach that only his husband could bring relief to. Without needing a word, Thorin sank into the steaming water and then pulled Bilbo into his lap, ever mindful of their proximity to the pool's deepest sections.

"You know, I sometimes wonder if the Valar hate us," Bilbo admitted. "As soon as we solve one problem, two more crop up to replace it. Perhaps Gandalf is right and we should accept an retirement. Your sister would make an excellent Queen, if my opinion matters at all."

"And what quiet, crisis-free place do you propose we retire to?"

Bilbo smiled and said, "I've had a fair few ideas, none of which involve being within a hundred miles of my nosy relatives. Besides, I'm sure Radagast would welcome us with open arms."

"No. Absolutely not."

"Oh, come now, don't be like that."

The hobbit leaned back to kiss his husband's fuzzy cheek, smiling at the grimace he felt there. It wasn't the wizard himself that Thorin had so much of a problem with, but the place in which he made his home. If recent reports were to be believed, then Radagast had reclaimed a small part of the Greenwood for his uses again, taking up just south of Thranduil's primary borders.

And this, of course, meant that Thorin didn't want to go anywhere near it.

"The man is covered in bird dung and mouse poop," said the dwarf with absolute disgust. "I hardly think that would assist in preventing disease, let alone be a suitable place to raise Frodo."

"You do realize that our lad enjoys playing in the stables, correct? And in my garden?"

"That's different."

"Of course, it is," snorted Bilbo. "One type of poop is completely different than another type of poop. All ends up being fertilizer anyways, not that you dwarves would know anything about that kinda stuff."

Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose and grumbled, "Now my day has been reduced to talk of poop. If only Frerin had been able to see this."

It must have been over an hour before they left the bath to towel off, Bilbo taking solace in his husband's strong presence and tenor, the dwarf singing some of Bilbo's favorite songs to soothe him. He welcomed their bed with a groan, body protesting the emotional and mental strain Bilbo had put it through today. And if the worried look on Óin's face could be viewed as foreshadowing, then tomorrow would be even more stressful for everyone this side of Mirkwood.

"Hold me tonight?"

"You don't even need to ask, âzyungel."

Wrapped up in his husband's arms, it didn't take long for Bilbo to fall into a dreamless slumber. Even years after the Quest for Erebor, nightmares were still a common occurrence for both of them, so Bilbo was surprised when morning came and neither had suffered a bad dream of any type. It was a strangeness that Bilbo didn't know what to make of.

"I'll just start up the oven and prepare some..." Bilbo paused at the waiting room door. "Good morning, Halin. You bring news?"

Óin's apprentice nodded, touching nothing while also keeping a safe distance between the royals and himself. Dark circles could be seen under the young dwarf's eyes, a testament to long hours of work and little sleep to combat it. The lack of Óin's presence simply confirmed what Bilbo already suspected; something bad had happened and Halin was the unlucky messenger.

"We received four more patients in the night, Your Highness. Two are children."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet again, sorry about the severely delayed updates. This year has been brutal for me, largely due to class and lab work. And one person guessed right on the disease! Say hello to black diphtheria, a rare strain that's only been seen a handful of times in the last two centuries. It's a really, _really_ nasty disease that I hope to never encounter in my career.
> 
> P.S. - The chapter titles are derived from the SEIR model, which we use a lot in epidemiology and other medical fields.


	4. Infectious

"Gimli's one of them."

All thoughts seemed to rush out of Bilbo's mind at this admission, fingers frozen above the book he'd been about to pick up from the sitting room table. He'd seen Gimli just the other day, complaining quite loudly about the sorry state of Erebor's newest recruits and how Balin was a slave-driver when it came to geometry and calculus lessons. The lad had been his usual self, rushing over to Bilbo to tell him of Dala's latest experiment in the kitchen.

Venison and orange marmalade should never be mixed together, in Gimli's opinion.

"How's that possible?" said Bilbo. "He was just fine the other day. Nothing wrong at all. By the Valar, I saw him training with my own eyes!"

"Symptoms appear to manifest rapidly with this disease, Your Highness. All of our patients reported feeling fine the day before they took ill, performing their duties with usual vigor and no exhaustion. But once symptoms do appear, it only takes a few hours to render a man delirious and near death. We aren't quite sure if the same will apply to dwarves, but Master Óin is treating each patient with the utmost caution until we're certain of potential prognoses."

Thorin nodded and said, "Thank you, Halin."

"I will keep you appraised of the situation as it develops, Your Majesty." The healer gave a deep bow, hands careful not to touch anything as he prepared to exit the royal suites. "Do you wish for me to relay a message to Master Óin?"

"That won't be necessary," said Thorin. "Just let me know if there are any new developments. It is more important that you remain with the patients, especially since we know so little about this disease."

"As you wish, my King."

Bilbo had sunk into his armchair a short time ago, ears buzzing and legs unable to hold him up after learning of Gimli's sickness. After all these years, Bilbo now knew how his own parents had felt when plagues swept through the Shire, taking the lives of many children they cared for and loved with them. But never had he expected for his dear friend's son to take ill; Gimli was a young and sturdy dwarf who often volunteered to lay stone in Bilbo's garden and tirelessly trained at Dwalin's side, more than willing to prove his worth to everyone around him.

"I need to see the boys," said Bilbo. "They'll be wanting breakfast and I don't trust them to wash their faces properly and oh goodness, this is just dreadful. What will Dala and Glóin do?"

"They have likely not left his bedside, just like we wouldn't for our boys."

"Dwarves weren't supposed to be effected! You almost never take ill, I've seen it. What's so different about this... black throat disease?"

"I don't know, âzyungel."

Wringing his hands the whole way, Bilbo walked to his youngest nephew's room and just barely opened the balcony curtains. Donel groaned from where he was curled up beside Frodo, small hand fumbling around until it found the blanket's edge and then pulled it over his entire head. Rolling his eyes at the boy's antics, all the hobbit did was snap his fingers and two deerhounds scrambled off the bed, eager for their own breakfast and not caring about the boys sleeping right above them.

"Uncle Bilbo!"

"It's time for breakfast," said Bilbo, already laying out an outfit for each child. "And you two promised to help me in the garden today, remember?"

"Mornings are stupid."

Donel grumbled and said, "I can't get up because the Valar won't let me. They're holding me down."

"Well, I'll certainly give you points for imagination."

Hands swift and efficient, Bilbo dragged both boys out of bed and somehow managed to dress and clean them in less than twenty minutes. He obsessively checked their foreheads for fever and their throats for black film, gut twisting in terror at the thought of finding anything unusual on either child.

"Your hands are cold, Uncle."

"I'm sorry, darling. The Celduin is always terribly chilled this time of year and I think the furnaces are fluctuating again."

"Can we have scrambled eggs for breakfast?"

"Of course."

After organizing and feeding both children, Bilbo requested that Lenn fetch one of his older nephews. It was about ten minutes later when Fíli arrived, gladly taking his little cousin and Donel for some playtime in his chambers. Bilbo used the excuse of wanting to work on his book, something that he often did as stress relief, anyways. He felt a little guilty for lying to Fíli, but Bilbo also felt that such deception was necessary.

"Don't let them eat too many cookies," said Bilbo. "I know what you did last week. Half my jar was empty!"

"That was entirely Kíli's fault, I swear it."

"A likely story. Well, run along now. I need space to think, so tell your uncle to keep himself occupied, too."

"Balin's got him in a meeting. I weaseled out of it."

"Of course, you did."

With that said, Fíli moseyed off with Frodo and Donel in tow, already promising them a bout of sword practice that would've given Bilbo grey hairs on any other day. But he had bigger worries right now and as soon as the boys were gone, Bilbo ran out to his garden, grabbing a pair of gloves, a big pot, and a thick cloth to wrap around his lower face. After getting himself into working order, it only took Bilbo about sixteen minutes to sneak past the guards and out of the Royal Wing, completely invisible thanks to his trusty magic ring. He took a roundabout path down to the infirmary, footsteps silent as he avoided touching anything or anyone.

"We've got ourselves another patient, Master Óin," said a young healer. "She's burning up, so open the door. We haven't much time, I fear."

Keeping himself close to the wall, Bilbo watched as a pair of dwarves came racing down the corridor with a small wooden cart, impatiently waiting for the infirmary to admit their newest patient. It took a couple long moments, but once the door was open, Bilbo easily dodged the dwarves themselves and slipped in behind the cart, not touching door or person the entire way.

It took Bilbo less than a minute to find Gimli among the mess of black throat patients. The lad was tucked away in a far corner, bed secluded for privacy, likely at the request of his parents. Unsurprisingly, Glóin and Dala sat on either side of him.

"Good evening," said Bilbo in a near whisper. "How is he doing?"

Dala whipped around with a gaping mouth, eyes wide as she looked in all directions to see who had spoken to her.

"Snuck out already, eh?"

As Bilbo had predicted, Glóin didn't even bat an eye at the hobbit's invisible presence. The red-haired dwarf had often been a recipient of Bilbo's company during their imprisonment in Thranduil's dungeons, always hiding a little bit of food away for his hungry friend. He may not have been able to see Bilbo, but he recognized the shy aura of their burglar without hesitation.

"I needed to see him with my own eyes. And don't worry, I've not touched a thing, and I'm very well covered."

"Keep it that way, laddie. Our Gimli would be horrified to learn that you fell ill just to see him," said Glóin, voice broaching no argument on the matter. "We welcome and appreciate the visit, though."

"He really can turn invisible," whispered Dala in amazement. "I thought you were speaking in jest all this time."

"We hobbits are a strange lot, I assure you."

Still making sure not to touch anything, Bilbo tiptoed around Glóin's chair and moved towards the cluttered table beside Gimli's bed. Only a small section wasn't covered in tonics and damp cloths, but it was just big enough for the pot that Bilbo had brought with him.

"Oh goodness," said Dala, "Those are absolutely beautiful."

"I thought some color would do him good."

The pot housed a thick bouquet of plants, all of them speaking in the language of flowers that hobbits loved so much. The baby's breath represented innocence and purity of heart, white heather was for protection, and eglantine rose a wish for wounds to heal. Bilbo had added a few marigolds to speak of pain and grief, but they were overshadowed by the more lighthearted flora around them.

Not hesitating for more than a few moments, Bilbo drew away from the bed and its occupants, keeping at least ten feet between them after that. He knew that distance was the best medicine for these type of illnesses and although it made Bilbo feel a little guilty, he also had the safety and health of his own boys to think about. The damp cloth he had wrapped around his face would help prevent infection, too.

"Oh, Bilbo, they're beautiful. What do they mean?"

Smiling at Dala's question, Bilbo went on to explain what each flower meant and why he chose it for Gimli. He kept his voice quiet the whole time, not wanting to alert the healers or Óin to his presence.

"You hobbits and your flowers," said Glóin, although there was no mocking or hostility in his voice. "No wonder you get along so well with the weed-eaters."

"Glóin!"

"Just doesn't make no sense to me." Glóin flinched when his wife smacked him. "Gems are much prettier. Flowers don't sparkle or shine."

"Well, you dwarves don't make sense to us, either."

Their conversation was interrupted by a sudden coughing fit from Gimli, the lad's breaths wheezing in and out as he fought for breath. Dala responded immediately, a damp cloth at the ready to wipe his face and forehead while Glóin propped him further up on the pillows. The sound was absolutely terrible and Bilbo feared that Gimli would break a rib on at least two occasions.

"It's getting worse," Dala admitted, tears rolling down her cheeks. "He can barely breathe half the time. Óin doesn't know what to do."

Gimli's cough continued to worsen, so much so that Óin came charging from the far side of the infirmary to check on him. As the lad's corner became more crowded and frantic, Bilbo decided that a swift departure would be prudent at this point. And if Bilbo was being truthful, he also couldn't bear listening to Gimli's choked breathing for a moment longer. It reminded him too much of Fíli and Kíli's near-fatal injuries after Erebor's reclamation.

"Here, I've brewed a new tonic," said Óin, voice thin with stress and exhaustion. "Lady Sigrid swears that it's helped some of her people. Or at least allowed them to breathe a little easier."

"Then give it to him, you dolt!"

Now standing near the doors, Bilbo watched with bated breath as Óin all but shoved the tonic down his nephew's throat, stomach twisting as another patient started to cough across the room. Gimli continued to hack and hack for several long minutes, finally quietening down once the medicine worked its way into his system. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead and soaked his whiskers and hair, giving the usually vibrant young dwarf a sallow appearance. Bilbo didn't even want to know what the lad's throat looked like, either.

"Flowers?" said Óin after he was done examining Gimli. "Sent down by our hobbit?"

"Aye. They're supposed to add some color," snarked Glóin. "Or that's what the flowery lil' note said."

"So long as he doesn't start sneezing from them."

The infirmary door opened to admit another patient, allowing Bilbo to sneak out without being seen or heard by anyone. Taking yet another roundabout path back to the Royal Wing, Bilbo threw his gloves and face cloth down a mine shaft before making a quick detour to the communal hot springs. He had hidden a change of clothes in one of the seldom used stalls before heading to the infirmary; the outfit he was wearing right now would be tossed into a mine shaft, too. Hobbits always burned or threw away fabrics that came into close contact with those who were very ill or possibly contagious.

With quick fingers, Bilbo scrubbed every part of him that may have been exposed to sickness, paying extra attention to his face, feet, and hands. Óin had been very thorough in explaining what methods were best for preventing the spread of disease, even referencing an elven text at one point. And given the dire circumstances, not even Thorin had objected to utilizing elven quarantine procedures.

After dressing in a new outfit and throwing away his old one, Bilbo scurried back to his chambers and took off the ring with a relieved sigh. Using it always seemed to tax his energy, but the trinket was too handy to completely cast aside for such a simple inconvenience. Bilbo barely had time to settle in at his writing desk before Dwalin, Thorin, and Balin appeared through the antechamber doors.

"We need to set up a schedule of rotating shifts," Balin was saying. "I think a minimal number of crewmen for each shift would—ah, Bilbo! How are you doing, laddie?"

"Suffering from a wee bit of writer's block, I'm afraid."

And it wasn't a lie, either. Bilbo had been fighting a nasty case of writer's block for the last month, so he didn't feel too terrible about telling Balin this. The older dwarf knew the feeling all too well.

"Not too surprising, considering everything that's going on right now." Balin moseyed on over to take a look at Bilbo's latest writings. "Writing when under stress can be dreadfully difficult, as I've experienced myself."

Thorin stole a chaste kiss and asked, "Where are the boys?"

"With Fíli for the morning and afternoon. He agreed to watch them while I worked on my book." Bilbo directed an exaggerated glare at said book. "Unfortunately, the peace and quiet doesn't seem to have amounted to much."

"Then I'd suggest taking a rest, umzam."

"You just want me to feed the whole lot of you," said Bilbo. "I see through your manipulative ways."

Dwalin shrugged. "I don't try to hide mine."

"No, no, you don't."

With that said, Bilbo followed his three dwarves into the kitchen, swiftly throwing together a light split-pea soup and several venison sandwiches for them. And all the while, his thoughts kept slipping back to Gimli, stomach twisting when he remembered the lad's painful hacks and soaring fever. Bilbo just kept reminding himself that Gimli was strong and young and would fight off this illness.

"You are troubled," said Thorin after the others left. "Would you like for me to send word to the infirmary?"

"No, I don't want anyone going in there unless it's absolutely necessary." Bilbo took a seat beside his husband on a garden bench. "For now, I'm going to consider no news to be good news. Óin will inform us if anything changes."

And Bilbo wasn't lying, either. It had been over four hours since he'd visited Gimli and a lot could change in such a short period of time. The waiting almost made him sick, but Bilbo also feared what the next knock on their doors could mean. The infirmary had been terrifying, fear now gripped much of the mountain, and Sigrid's daily letters didn't reassure Bilbo in the slightest.

Arda herself seemed to be unleashing vengeance upon them.

"I suppose that's our best option at the moment," said Thorin. "Until the sickness burns out, Dale and Erebor will remain in a state of limbo, I fear."

"That could take weeks or months."

"Erebor has faced several plagues before. The northmen have always been the worst effected, but we dwarves aren't as immune as we lead others to believe, even if our bodies are much sturdier. Unless the weed-eaters or that damned wizard have a cure, there's little more we can do right now."

They sat there for a long while, Bilbo curling into his husband's side as the sun rose to its peak and then slowly gave way to late afternoon. Neither of them wanted to move, but there were things to do and two little boys to keep track of. The mountain would be even more difficult to manage in the coming weeks due to their reduced numbers and enforced quarantine, both of which were only now starting to settle over Bilbo's mind.

"Uncle! Are either of you in here?"

Fíli's golden head peeked around the kitchen corner. He looked more than a little harried.

"The boys are in Frodo's room playing a game of conkers. And, umm, I heard about Gimli. Have you heard anything since this morning?"

Bilbo shook his head. "We're hoping no news is good news."

"I heard one of the guards talking and was just curious," said Fíli. "One of his cousins is among the ill and from what I heard, things aren't looking too good down there in the infirmary."

"One of Óin's healers will be debriefing me within the hour. You may stay if you have any concerns," Thorin offered. "I would advise you to prepare for unwanted news, though. With any type of plague, things will get worse before they get better."

"You don't have to stay if you don't want to, Fíli."

"No, I have to." Fíli remained standing even after his uncles took to the kitchen table. "These are my people, my subjects. One day, I will be their king, and I need to be able to handle situations like this, even if it's terrifying. My people are sick and dying, as are Bard's. And it's already infected my own family, so I can't just go and hide in my rooms like a spineless coward."

Bilbo reached out and took his nephew's hand. "If that's what you feel is right. But still, my boy, prepare yourself."

"No one prepared Gimli for what he's going through," said Fíli, "And if my little cousin can fight the black throat, then I can help lead the mountain until it burns itself out."

"Let us hope it burns quickly then."

"Aye."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clinical rotation is killing me, but I will finish this! Just one more chapter. And yes, I've been cruel to the Company. I'm a terrible person.


End file.
